[In the background.] If you please, step right in, my dear lady! I beg your pardon, sir! I was expecting a lady … I was expecting a young lady … But, please, come in.
HASSENREUTER comes forward accompanied by PASTOR SPITTA. The latter is sixty years old. A village parson, somewhat countrified. One might equally well take him to be a surveyor or a landowner in a small way. He is of vigorous appearance—short-necked, well-nourished, with a squat, broad face like Luther's. He wears a slouch-hat, spectacles and carries a cane and a coat of waterproof cloth over his arm. His clumsy boots and the state of his other garments show that they have long been accustomed to wind and weather.
PASTOR SPITTA
Do you know who I am, Mr. Hassenreuter?
HASSENREUTER
Not quite exactly, but I would hazard …
PASTOR SPITTA
You may, you may! You needn't hesitate to call me Pastor Spitta from Schwoiz in Uckermark, whose son Erich—yes, that's it—has been employed in your family as private tutor or something like that. Erich Spitta: that's my son. And I'm obliged to say that with deep sorrow.
HASSENREUTER
First of all, I'm very glad, to have the privilege of your acquaintance. I hasten at once to beg you, however, dear Pastor, not to be too much worried, not to be too sorrowful concerning the little escapade in which your son is indulging.